She's quiet, private and reserved, but when she walks into a room trailed by a subliminal sonic boom, everybody knows that she's there.
She has the look of both predator and prey, she's the rose and the thorn, the night and the dawn.
Her eyes shimmer like moonlight on a summer pond, a kaleidoscope of colours spiraling off into infinity, a contradiction of sentiment; a riddle of intent.
She's a master of her craft, a creative tactile technician, a student of reaction and response able to dangle me at the precipice, nerves frayed and senses heightened.
She's fragrant plumes and warning sign. An aesthetic wonder, skin of honey and satin hair, she's soft edge and contoured line.
She’s the epitome of mystery and feminine magic, the girl that turns a man like me into a writer, poet, musician.
